


the ghost/Jaqueline Bethany/vengeful spirit

by NimDamy



Series: Finding the way (back to your embrace) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Bucky Barnes, Gen, Genderbending, Implied James Barnes/Brock Rumlow, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Jackie Barnes, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) is a Good Bro, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pre-Relationship, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimDamy/pseuds/NimDamy
Summary: The Winter Soldier is a ghost story.Of course, nobody really pays attention to ghost stories anymore. Nobody really remembers the underlying threat, the unspoken rules, the consequences. Nobody heeds their warnings anymore....The most important piece of information that most ghost stories leave out?All ghosts stay behind for a reason.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Jarvis (Iron Man movies), James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Finding the way (back to your embrace) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218593
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	the ghost/Jaqueline Bethany/vengeful spirit

The Winter Soldier is a ghost story.

Of course, nobody really pays attention to ghost stories anymore. Nobody really remembers the underlying threat, the unspoken rules, the consequences. Nobody heeds their warnings anymore.

The asset, of course, would play this to its advantage. 

* * *

It's been a couple of weeks since the battle of the Triskelion, subsequent fall of SHIELD and rise of HYDRA and the Winter Soldier is nowhere to be found. 

The asset leaves the Potomac shore dripping wet, with a slightly malfunctioning arm and lacking three guns and five-to-ten knives from its usual inventory.

The asset finds its way to a HYDRA safehouse, equipped with everything necessary to sustain complete blackout protocol for three-to-seven weeks, depending on the number of occupants.

There are three agents inside, greeting the asset with loud and bold “Heil HYDRA”s. The asset makes quick work of them. The asset no longer belongs to HYDRA.

The asset claims the safehouse for its own. 

The asset lays down on a bed. It cannot remember the last time it did so.

The image of the man from the bridge comes, unbidden, to the forefront of the asset’s mind.

Rogers, Steven Grant. Captain America. Threat assessment: 7/10, increase to 8.5 if in possession of vibranium shield.

In the helicarrier? He had called the asset by a name different than Soldier.(Soldat?)

“Your name is Jaqueline (Jacqueline) Bethany Barnes. You were the first female sniper of the US army. And you were, you are, my best friend.” Steven Grant Rogers’ words don’t make much sense to the asset, but what does, really?

“Jaqueline… Bethany… Barnes,” the asset says slowly, rarely, voice hoarse from lack of use.

The words feel like coming home and the asset knows, beyond any shadow of doubt, that the words mean something, something more than the asset and the Soldier and HYDRA and handlers and everything else.

There’s a computer with access to the internet and the main HYDRA database in one of the rooms of the safehouse. 

Gathering intelligence has never been the asset's primary function. But that did not mean it was not capable of doing it. Not when it was the asset who had trained the greatest generation of spies and operatives to ever live. 

So the asset sits down in front of the computer and logs into the HYDRA database using the details of one of the former residents of the safehouse. High-ranking enough to have access to most of the information, but low-ranking enough that his silence would not be questioned for at least a while yet. 

The asset types the name in the search bar and waits. No results. As expected. It types “designaton: Winter Soldier” next. No results.

Apparently, the intelligence department of HYDRA had enough of a collective intellect not to put information on the asset in a system where anyone could have access. Good.

It is, in the end, no hunt, if the prey just goes ahead and snaps its own neck. 

The internet is next. 

The name gives mixed results.

There’s a Wikipedia article that proves somewhat helpful. It’s on one Betty Barnes, born Jaqueline Bethany Barnes. The picture is of a woman with dark hair and bright lipstick, holding a beautiful, if somewhat outdated, sniper rifle against her hip and shooting a cocky smile at the camera. The article tells the story of a woman ahead of her time, fighting side-by-side with Captain America to defeat all those who stood against freedom. A woman who gave her life for her country. There’s a link to the website of the Smithsonian, advertising a limited-time only exposition on Captain America and his Howling Commandos. The asset makes a note to check it out in person at some point.

Next, the asset searches for the Winter Soldier. Its query gives even less satisfying results, conspiracy theories and blurry pictures from the bridge fight. 

Getting to the deep web is less of a challenge than the asset would have liked. However, several hours in front of a screen finally yield results. 

From the sheer amount of information on SHIELD and HYDRA and the overall roughness of it all, the asset recognizes the work of Romanova. She had never really been one for the finer aspects of toppling empires. At least it does decrease the chances of the information being tampered with.

What the asset finally finds is a picture. It’s just a scanned piece of paper, most of the information on it redacted. It doesn’t really matter. The little that is available is enough. 

The asset stares at the picture of yellowing paper for a long time, until every single word, every single symbol is etched into its memory.

The file is about the Winter Soldier.

The two pictures clipped to the side of the paper are enough to connect the pieces in the asset’s brain. 

**Name: Jaqueline Bethany Barnes**

**Sex: F; DoB: 03/10/1917**

**Designation: Winter Soldier, Asset**

**Location: (redacted)**

**Abilities: (redacted)**

The first picture is of the woman from the Wikipedia page, in military uniform, lips only slightly curling upwards as her picture is taken.

The second picture is more recent. A picture of the asset in the cryo tank. 

Captain America had not, in fact, been wrong.

The asset’s stomach growls, so the asset rises up from the chair to search for some form of sustenance, still going over the gathered information in its head.

“Jaqueline Bethany Barnes,” the asset says out loud again, after downing two protein bars (bland but nutritionally satisfying) and five glasses of tap water.

This time, the name brings forth an onslaught of information from the asset’s spotty memory, bits and pieces of images and scenes and words, all whirling out of control inside the asset’s head. 

The asset returns to the computer room and searches through the drawers of the desk until it comes up with a small notepad and a pen. 

The hurricane inside its mind is howling, searching for some form of release.

The asset sits down.

Puts the tip of the pen on the paper.

And writes.

* * *

The most important piece of information that most ghost stories leave out? 

All ghosts stay behind for a reason. 

* * *

The asset looks in the mirror with the chipped corner from the safehouse bathroom. There are dark shadows under the asset’s eyes and the long dark hair hanging in front of its face is dirty and in need of a trim.

The asset says the name again. Not for the first time, something feels wrong about the sound of it. It doesn’t matter right now. 

The asset says the name again. Its own name. No. _Her_ own name.

_She_ is Jaqueline Bethany Barnes. Winter Soldier, Asset, Howling Commando Sniper. Jaqueline Bethany Barnes.

The name is a tidal wave that carries her home.

* * *

Sometimes, the only reason ghosts stay behind is revenge.

* * *

Jaqueline Bethany Barnes takes a shower. Hot water, medium-quality cleaning products. She washes her hair and ties it up in a high ponytail.

Not the best hairstyle for the work ahead of her, but HYDRA will never get close enough to her to use it as an advantage.

Once again in front of the mirror of the bathroom of the safehouse, Jaqueline Bethany Barnes swears vengeance upon HYDRA. For all that they have taken from her. Starting with her name.

* * *

HYDRA asked for a ghost to fit their story.

In the end, “ghost” is just a softer name for what they got. For what she becomes that day in the safehouse.

They tried to make a ghost, but she was a vengeful spirit.

And she would remind all of HYDRA of the real reason behind ghost stories.

* * *

She's sitting cross-legged, sharpening one of the many knives usually strapped to her body, the ruins of one of the bigger HYDRA facilities smouldering around her, when the Stark boy finds her. 

"For the amount of work you've been doing lately, you're quite the hard one to track down," he says, not removing the faceplate of his helmet. 

Jaqueline Bethany Barnes takes him in, high-tech armour covering every last inch of his body, and packing enough firepower to raze a building off the face of Earth without breaking a sweat. 

"You did track me down, though didn't you?" she replies, running the pad of her flesh thumb down the edge of the blade to test her handiwork. 

Pleased with the state of the weapon, she returns it to its holster somewhere on the inside of her thigh and stands up to face Stark, Anthony Edward, Iron Man. 

“J did do most of the work, so I'll give credit where credit is due. I do, however, believe we are long overdue for a talk, don't you?"

There it is. She's been expecting this ever since she realised the young Stark was on her trail. 

Not that she could blame him. 

She remembers the night, December wind biting cold as she waited for a car in the middle of the road, with clear instructions on how to handle the cargo. _All_ of the cargo. 

_A flash of headlights, a screech of brakes on the road, the thin black ice making it near impossible for the car to safely come to a halt._

_And, true to expectations, the car drifts off the road, the front of it wrapping around a tree._

_Both passengers survive the initial crash._

_The driver exits the car, legs shaking, eyes widening when he sees the soldier._

_The asset brushes it off as fear, but then the man goes and calls out a soft "Betty?" under his breath, and it’s the first time the asset malfunctions on a mission._

_Nothing major. A second-long hesitation. It is enough to bring the asset a longer-than-usual session in the chair._

Jaqueline Bethany Barnes needs only to blink once to return to the present.

There is no need for words to deal with what is coming next. That much she knows.

So she stands, back straight, head held high, refusing to reach for any weapons and keeping her arms loose by her sides. 

She’d been dealing with Death face to face for decades. She would greet it like the unfailing companion it had been in all the years.

Yet… yet Death doesn’t come for her.

Instead of the blast of repulsors, what she hears is the soft hiss of the helmet unlocking and she watches as he removes it, leaving him with his head exposed, dark hair wet from sweat and sticking up in all directions. 

“You did give the good Captain quite the shock, miss Barnes,” Stark says, helmet dangling carelessly from the fingers of his left hand, right arm held in a casual pose by his side. Casual, yet not relaxed, and she can already picture how it would only take him half a second to line and take a shot with the repulsors.

She’s used the exact same tactic with countless of her targets.

“I do understand why you didn’t really stick around, though,” he keeps talking, even as his eyes are studying and cataloguing her every move, every breath, “his whole “God bless America” patriotic routine can be a little much. He did have quite the kicked puppy look when he figured out you bailed, instead of dutifully waiting by his bedside…”

Stark keeps talking, but she can see how his hands are shaking ever so slightly and she finds it unfair that he’s just as wary of her as she is of him. He may not hold all the cards, but he might as well.

The way he’s talking to her, though, still going on and on about “Steve” and throwing the occasional name of one of the other Avengers into the mix, it brings another memory to the forefront of her mind. Or, perhaps, it’s not just one memory but rather many splinters of many memories that got dumped together, but through it all there’s a constant, another man from another time, and though he and Stark look nothing alike, there’s something that’s somehow inherently the same about them.

For a fraction of a second she is, indeed, in a different time, with a different man by her side, whose dark skin cast him out from his peers but whose words never failed to make her smile.

“...of course, that whole mess would have easily been cleaned up if dear old Captain Rogers would have bothered with a phone call. He has a top-of-the-line StarkPhone for a reason dammit, but then again, he wouldn’t be himself if he wouldn’t bring the drama with him wherever he went, would he now?”

There’s something in the near flat delivery that is painfully familiar to her, and she realizes that she’d love nothing more than to just wrap herself up in that familiarity and just forget about life and Death and the world. But the feeling is gone almost as soon as it appears.

Instead she steps forward, slowly, getting closer to him. Stark stops talking then,eyes suddenly focused and cataloguing every single move she makes. 

So she keeps her hands steady and almost unbearably slow as she takes a gun from her thigh holster. The helmet-mask of his suit is already back in place, the bright blue glow of its eyes a stark contrast to the red and gold color scheme, when she reaches out her hand, offering him the gun, grip-first.

He tilts his head, but takes the weapon, and she’s convinced that, the moment it’s in his hand, he does a full scan of it.

“Not my design,” he says, as if that was the point. “But at least it’s not HammerTech either, so that’s good enough, all things considered,” he says, voice coming out with the slightest electronic modulation, watching her again.

She keeps her back straight and her head high and meets his stare head-on.

“Mission report, December 16th, 1991,” she begins, and it’s not loud, but it’s loud enough to get him to focus solely on what she’s about to say. It’s not difficult to slip back into the Soldier’s head, not now, not after realizing that she and the Soldier are, in the end, one and the same. “Mission directive: neutralization of Stark, Howard Anthony Walter and recovery of briefcase containing several vials of Erskine Super Soldier Serum. Mission status: successful completion. Collateral casualties: Stark, Maria Collins Carbonell.” She hates the way her voice cracks on the name of the woman whose only fault was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Stark’s hand tightens on the grip of the gun she’d offered. His faceplate retracts a few seconds later and she looks him dead in the eye as he takes into consideration what she’s told him. Calculating.

“Justice is to be served, Stark,” she says then, as the silence threatens to stretch unbearably long. 

He looks her up and down, and she has the feeling that he doesn’t need the highly-advanced tech that his suit offers in order to scan her and figure her out.

And then he bursts out laughing.

“Oh so that’s what you thought?” he manages to say. “As if I hadn’t found that out years ago…” He takes a breath, sobering. “We both know, as much of a drunkard as Howard was, he never touched alcohol while on the job. Bastard had a work ethic, after all…”

He offers her the weapon back. 

“Justice is to be served, but you don’t punish the weapon, you go after the asshole that pulled the trigger. Besides,” he adds as he bears witness to her reticence at the offered gun, “I’m not going to be the one to explain to Captain Mope-merica that I’m the reason his bestie is dodging his calls. I’ve long-since sworn to stay out of other’s relationships. One too many unsuccessful attempts at a menage-a-trois, you know,” he explains, and she can’t help the grin that’s slowly taking over her face.

She reaches out and retrieves the gun, smoothly shoving it back into its holster on her thigh. There’s something utterly disarming in the look on Stark’s face as he keeps his hand extended towards her.

“What do you say, miss Barnes, would you agree to join me and go serve some Justice to the bastards who deserve it?”

She’s smiling still, when she reaches out and takes his hand.

* * *

The journey to Avengers Tower in New York takes both longer and far shorter than she expects. 

Stark flies the two of them to the small airport outside the city, where they then board his private jet to fly to NY. 

From there, Stark, back in the armor, flies the two of them right to the rooftop of Avengers’ Tower.

It takes seconds for Stark, assisted by several robots, to remove his armor and once again offer her his arm. It brings back barely-remembered images of dancing, and the overly-polite gentlemen of the 40s. She lets him guide her through the building, keeping her other hand within easy reach of two guns and three knives, and mentally mapping every single nook and cranny she passes by. Because Stark may be a-okay with her “joining his household and his crusade against villains”, but that doesn’t mean that the other residents of the tower would be just as welcoming.

“So, I think I’ll give you the grand tour, what do you think?” Stark asks, leading her towards what appears to be an elevator. “Give J a chance to set up your place in the meanwhile.”

She shoots him a half-grin. There’s something about him that’s just so painfully familiar that she can’t help herself from shooting back: “Is there anything you do that _isn’t_ grand, Stark?”

The look of pure shock on his face makes her regret not having a camera on hand, because he’s gaping at her for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter.

“I have no idea why I expected you to be just as much of a stick-in-the-mud kicked puppy as the dear old captain, but damn, am I glad that’s not the case,” he eventually says, once his laugh subsides. “Anyway, welcome to Avengers Tower, miss Barnes. We’re glad to have you here. This is the main elevator, it runs from the landing pad on the roof all the way down to the workshop.”

It’s seconds later that the elevator comes to a halt. The doors open to reveal a massive, open-space kind of setting.

“This is the common floor, with the main kitchen, the rec room and the movie room. It’s smack in the middle of the Avengers’ floors, with Thor, Bruce and myself above and Clint, Natasha and Steve below. Below them are the guest floors, one of which is currently being set up for you, and under those are the offices, then the R&D workshop, my personal workshop and the gym and medical ward. Feel free to use all shared spaces and, in case you need anything from the ‘shop, just let J know and we’ll set up something ASAP. All the food in the common kitchen is fair game. If you intend to keep something for yourself, either label it in big bold letters or just keep it in the kitchenette on your floor. Also, Pepper’s rule: no blood in the common areas unless it’s the sparring mats or the infirmary,” he explains as he guides her to the kitchen and starts rummaging through the large and impressively stocked fridge. “Aha!” he lets out as he finds whatever it is that he’s looking for before turning around and offering her the open package. “Blueberry?”

She’s about to reach out and take some of the fruit when there’s a loud crash from from behind her and she’s on high alert, knife in hand, in less than a second, ready to face the new threat.

What she’s met with, instead, makes her suddenly wish she’d rejected Stark’s offer in the first place. In front of her, wide-eyed and surrounded by ceramic shards, stands Rogers, Steven Grant. _Steve, Cap, Stevie_. All color drained from his face.

Behind him, watching the scene with sharp eyes, is Wilson, Samuel. The man with the metal wings who the media have taken to calling “Falcon” and, for a second, she’s back on the highway, punching through a windshield and ripping a steering wheel clean off its column.

Rogers is still not moving and it’s getting tiresome, so she turns right around to Stark and takes some of the fruit he’s still holding out to her, raising an eyebrow at the knowing look on his face.

There’s the sound of crunching, of shards of a broken plate underneath Rogers’ shoes, coming from behind and she tenses up ever so slightly when he lets out a soft “Betty”.

“Well,” she says to Stark, “I believe we’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, don’t you think so? If you don’t mind too much, I’d rather retire for the night.”

“Of course, miss Barnes,” he replies and sets the open package of blueberries on the kitchen counter before offering her his arm again.

Somehow, he’d understood perfectly that the best thing he could give her at the moment was a fast exit and a human barrier in between her and Rogers. So she takes his arm and they head toward the elevator, giving the still-frozen captain a wide enough berth to avoid stepping on any shards. She knows she’ll have to deal with Rogers soon enough, but there’s something in the look on his face that takes her right back to the night, right after Azzano, when she was still fresh off Zola’s table, and all it took was a flash of a red dress and even redder lipstick and there’s, once again, something sharp and ugly and almost spiteful rearing its head inside her chest. So she pushes it down and turns away, avoiding eye contact.

The movement of her head brings her face-to-face with Wilson and this, at least, is something she can deal with now. So she lets go of Stark’s arm and takes the few steps necessary to bring her within talking distance to him and she looks Wilson up and down once before offering a short but genuine “I’m sorry I wrecked your car. And your wings.”

Wilson’s eyes widen for a second, but, to his credit, he doesn’t flinch away from her. He just offers her a wide smile and holds out his hand.

“Takes more than that to keep me down. But apology accepted. Sam Wilson, but you probably knew that already.”

“Jaqueline Bethany Barnes,” she offers, as she shakes his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, miss Barnes,” he says, and his smile, all of a sudden, makes her remember her brother. Missing him is a visceral pain all over again. But she knows better than to let any sign of weakness show, so she just nods in agreement and returns to Stark’s side, allowing him to guide her back to the hallway, where the elevator doors are already open and waiting.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Rogers shaking his head, waking up from the daze he’s in and then he’s moving, ready to run after them and there’s something almost pleased, purring in her mind at how, for once, it’s him who’s ready to chase after her, instead of the other way around. But it’s short-lived, as a flash of red catches his attention and, for the first time in as long as her Swiss-cheese brain can remember, Steve Rogers gives up on something he’s previously set his mind on.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking, that she could, for once, be the one that Rogers’ full focus was on, and the realization hurts more than she’d thought possible.

So she allows herself one look back, as the elevator doors are closing, but her eyes focus on the redhead next to Rogers rather than on him, and she can see the second her eyes widen in recognition.

It took her less time than expected. Then again, Natalia Romanova was one of the more… delicate cases of the Red Room students, and the fact that she was the only Widow that had to be wiped almost as often as the Asset itself spoke for itself.

“You know, Cap claims Natasha means well, even if her methods are, well, _unconventional_ , so to speak,” Stark says after the doors have fully closed. “I had some doubts, but she’s not as bad as she could have been, so there’s that.”

She hums noncommittally, and, once again, marvels at just how easily and how much Stark understands, even though every single piece of information her research had turned up would point exactly to the contrary.

Then again, it’s not like the files SHIELD and HYDRA kept on any of the Avengers could be completely and utterly trusted.

The elevator comes to a halt and the doors open to a hallway painted a soft baby blue. The color complements beautifully the blooming Peace lilies lining the walls. 

"Welcome to your new quarters, Miss Barnes. I hope you'll find everything to your liking. And please, don't hesitate to ask J for anything else you might want or need."

He leads the way and shows her everything, from the smaller yet still fully-equipped kitchen, to the cozy living/dining room, to the bedroom and the attached walk-in bathroom, sporting both a large tub and a spacious shoer cabin that could easily fit three people even with two of those being super soldiers. 

Before he leaves, Stark offers her a thick manila envelope. 

"While you'll be staying here, you will have access to any and all accommodations the rest of the Avengers get. There's also some extra paperwork and documents J provided, including an up-to-date ID and driving license. Really, miss Barnes, if there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask either JARVIS or myself," he says.

There’s something in the way he speaks that has irked her the whole evening, and as he's about to leave she figures out just what it is. 

"Betty."

"Excuse me?" 

"Please, call me Betty. And thank you. For everything," she offers and is rewarded with a bright smile in return that makes her wonder just what had happened to him that it's a simple thanks that makes Stark light up like that. 

"My pleasure, Betty. And good night," he says, and leaves and, for the first time in hours, she's alone. 

She’s just about to collapse into bed when she catches sight of her leather-and-kevlar jacket, still splattered with dirt, some sort of dark-colored gunk, something that looks suspiciously like blood, and God-knows what else. So, instead of falling face-first into the exquisite mattress and thousand-thread count sheets, she goes into the bathroom, quickly peeling off the clothing and leaving it all in a heap on the floor before stepping into the shower and turning the water on. 

But the water doesn’t only come from the large shower-head set into the wall, well above her head, but also from numerous smaller (elephant) set in the wall and even though the water is hot and even though she rationally knows that she’s in New York, in Stark’s tower and even though pretty much all the high-ranking HYDRA men are gone, most of them at her own hand, none of it matters. Because the water hits her skin at a certain angle and she’s suddenly _back_. 

Back in a nondescript warehouse, surrounded by men pointing high-pressure water hoses at her because _“You cannot expect us to endure that stench all the way back to base, chief. Besides, s’not like it’ll remember anything once they shove its brain back in the blender.”_ And there’s more, there’s yelling and phantoms of touches and a rough voice whispering into her ear with something that could almost resemble kindness. And then the same voice yelling orders, because he might have been a HYDRA commander, but he was a soldier and a team leader first, and he knew how to lead his men and return to base with as few casualties as possible. And his body was never recovered after the fall of the Triskelion, even though he had been there that day but he didn’t show up in any of her incursions inside HYDRA bases but there was still no body and that was enough to keep her thinking that maybe, just maybe, he was still alive and in hiding. Or, maybe, he had done what he had once said he was tempted to do, the words spoken in hushed tones when he thought she was asleep and nobody could hear his treacherous thoughts.

But that still didn’t, would never erase the things they had done to her. What she had been forced to do, and it didn’t matter, she wasn’t a _she_ , she was just the Asset, and it had no such things as thoughts or feelings, only the mission, the directives and the weapons and it had to report to a handler for another session in the chair, because it just wouldn’t do for the Asset to malfunction like this…

“... miss Barnes? Please, miss, breathe and let me help you or, at least, call for someone to help. Perhaps captain Rogers or Sir could provide you with assistance?”

The sound of that name, even spoken in a modulated, not-quite-human voice, breaks through the haze in her mind.

The first thing she registers was the cold tiles of the shower floor under her and the quickly-warming glass wall against her back. The second thing is that the water had been turned off.

“Miss Barnes?” the voice inquires again and this time she lifts her head from where it rested on her knees and lets her eyes scan the entire expanse of the bathroom, only to see that there is nobody else in there with her.

“My scans indicate that your heart rate and brain waves are returning to normal, but I have to ask again if you would prefer for any of the other inhabitants of the Tower to be alerted about your state and if you need any assistance from any of them,” the voice asks again and her hand itches for a weapon even as she shakes her head. 

The last time she’d had to deal with a disembodied voice, it was Zola’s computer and if there was one thing she was thankful for, it was that Rogers had dealt with that before she was forced to.

“Where are you?” she asks, instead, even as she’s calculating how long it would take for her to reach her pile of dirty clothes and retrieve her weapons.

“I beg your pardon, miss, we have not been properly introduced. I am JARVIS, the AI who runs most of the things in the tower and in Stark Industries. As Sir has stated several times, please feel free to ask me for anything you need and I will assist you to the best of my abilities.”

It all clicks into place then, because of course Stark would have built an AI to keep track of everything going on inside his tower and considering the background and the abilities of the other people living there, it made perfect sense. As much as she knows that this should make her feel watched, as if on probation, it makes her breathe a little easier instead. 

For some incomprehensible reason, she trusts Stark. And it made a lot more sense to have an AI security rather than humans, if only because, given Stark’s genius and area of expertise, it would be by far a rather impossible feat to corrupt the AI, while humans could change their whims at the fall of a hat.

Besides, if her hunch is correct, JARVIS would prove to be the most useful ally she could make.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” she says, because her mama didn’t raise a heathen, and then she continues. “Could you, perhaps, remove all the extra… features from the shower other than the normal showerhead? I really need to wash…”

“If I may, miss, may I suggest a bath instead? From my experience with Sir, it helps to change the environment entirely, rather than just adjust the most triggering aspect. At least in the beginning.”

It sounds perfectly reasonable, so she switches the shower for the tub, and, as she’s sinking into the hot water, she has to admit that, for a disembodied AI, JARVIS is rather skilled in dealing with humans.

It’s heaven, the way she can feel her muscles relaxing, even as she carefully keeps her left arm out of the water as much as possible. While rust is not a real risk, water doesn’t exactly mix well with the technology, as advanced as it was.

She’s all wrapped up in fluffy towels when she realizes she doesn’t own any clothes other than the dirty heap still on the bathroom floor, and as she bends down to pick them up, she decides that she’d rather stay naked than put those back on before she washes them.

She starts rummaging through the bathroom cabinets, before realizing that she might need some assistance.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes miss?”

“Is there any laundry detergent in this bathroom?”

“Don’t worry about the clothes, miss, just place them in the laundry basket and one of the cleaning bots will handle them.”

“Umm…” she tries to think of how to proceed but JARVIS is one step ahead of her.

“There is a basic selection of clothing in the wardrobe, including underwear and sleepwear in a variety of cuts and sizes, most of which have been approximated based on the scarce pictures and videos of you available, but you are free to order whatever else you might want.”

She can feel her face flush slightly.

“...thank you.”

“You are most welcome, miss.”

She finds some comfortable clothes and she’s all dressed, hair wrapped tight in a towel, when her eyes settle on the manila envelope Stark left her.

Inside there are the promised documents, as well as an Avengers legitimation, a platinum debit card and a brand new phone and tablet.

“JARVIS,” she asks, as she’s studying the phone, which appears to have come fully charged and with a plethora of apps already installed on it, “are any of these items tracked?”

“Other than the Avengers legitimation, which is sporting a special chip developed by Sir, which allows for a distress signal and full-globe tracking coverage through me, the rest of items are virtually untraceable. The _envelope_ is safe, miss Barnes,” he replies and there’s something in the way he phrases it that itches at her brain.

Then she recalls the brief flash of red hair and it hits her.

After all, Romanova was the best graduate of the Red Room. Of course she would instantly want to keep an eye on any possible threat.

Then again, the Asset had trained Romanova. Natalia may be good, but she was better.

Clad in comfortable loungewear, hair still in a towel, exhaustion still pulling at the edges of her consciousness, she goes on the hunt.

There’s a small pile of minuscule devices on the nightstand by the time she’s done.

One by one, she takes them, crushes them between the thumb and the forefinger of her left hand and then flushes the remains down the toilet.

“Thank you for the warning, JARVIS,” she says, before, at last, collapsing into bed, falling asleep before her head hit the pillow.

“Good job, miss Barnes, I do believe that Sir was indeed right about you,” JARVIS replies softly. He dims the lights, making sure her sleep will not be disturbed for as long as she should need.

**Author's Note:**

> way way way too late, but it is here  
> This is the piece i wrote for the MRBB2020, all inspired by the magnificent art made by @ohmyshax who came up with the concept of Lady Bucky and got me hooked and then worked with me to build a whole new universe  
> it ended up growing way way way more than expected so we decided to split it into several smaller works and make them all part of a series, so keep that in mind when you read this and it seems that things don't really make sense... Oh, and please let us know if you want more!  
> 'till next time!


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